Tree goes by the windows. Or maybe the corner by the stove, so people can warm up while they decorate. Lights on the beams. Garland along the loft railing. Stockings on that blank wall near the woodpile. If we shift the couch two feet left, we can open space for a games table or gift exchange…
I pull my tablet free and open the document I started on the flight, reminding myself I still don’t actually know how many people are coming.
“Your mom said you’re expecting…?” I trail off, hoping he’ll fill in the blank.
“Too many,” he calls from the kitchen.
“Great. Love a challenge.”
He returns with two mismatched mugs. Mine says Colorado Fish & Game. His says Don’t Talk To Me Until This Cup Is Empty, which feels on brand.
He hands me the fish mug. Our fingers brush. The contact is brief, but it sends a streak of awareness up my arm. Apparently my nerves are very sensitive to altitude.
Focus, Nat.
“So,” I say, wrapping my hands around the warmth. “Let’s start with the basics. How many people. Ages. Any dietary restrictions, known feuds, traditional games, absolute no-gos. Any family members likely to set something on fire. That sort of thing.”
He stares at me for a beat. “You plan for arson?”
“I plan for any scenario where an aunt throws a punch over the last piece of fudge. Fire is on the list.”
He sinks onto the couch like the conversation already exhausts him. “My mom. My sister. Her husband. Two kids, both under ten. My uncle and aunt. Their son. Maybe another cousin if he can get time off. It depends on the roads.”
I jot notes quickly. “So potentially…ten? Eleven? That’s manageable.”
“For you,” he says. “They’re used to my mom’s house. Big dining room. Sideboard. Vintage ornaments everywhere. The whole Norman Rockwell thing. They’re not going to want to cram in here.”
My gaze sweeps the room again. “We can make it work. People don’t remember square footage. They remember how they felt. Cozy and close can read as intimate and special. Especially if there’s good food and they’re not sitting on the floor.”
“You really believe that,” he says.
“I do.” I meet his eyes. “I’ve seen couples get married in strip mall banquet rooms and make it look like the Plaza. I’ve worked in rental halls that smelled like old fries and bleach. This?” I gesture around us. “This is a dream. It already feels like Christmas. We’re just going to add some sparkle.”
He looks around like he’s trying to see the room the way I do. His shoulders are still tight, but there’s a crack in the resistance now.
“You don’t even know what my family is like,” he says finally.
“Tell me,” I say.
He hesitates, then shrugs, like he can’t quite believe he’s doing this. “Loud. Opinionated. My aunt cries at commercials. My uncle has an opinion on everything. My mom wants everyone to be happy all the time, which means she’s usually stressed. My sister pretends she’s above all of it, but she’s the one who keeps the traditions going. Stockings. Board games. Matching pajamas. The kids…they’re great. They’re just kids.”
His voice softens on that last word. The affection there is obvious.
“And you?” I ask. “Where do you fall in the chaos?”
He goes still. “Doesn’t matter.”
“It does if I’m planning around you,” I say, more gently than before.
His gaze meets mine. For a second, the protective armor slips and I see something else underneath: weariness, maybe. A kind of weight.
“I used to be the one who made things work,” he says quietly. “When my dad was still around, he and I handled the practical stuff. So my mom and sister could…do all the rest. We were the backup crew.”
He swallows.
“After he died, I tried to keep doing it. But the house felt like a minefield. Every tradition turned into a fight. Everyone was grieving in their own way. My mom wanted to cling to everything. My sister wanted to burn it all down and start over. I was stuck in the middle, trying to keep the pipes from freezing and the lights from going out.”
I keep my hands steady around my mug even though my chest hurts for him.
